


Christmas Spirit

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10112864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: Christmas in the unremarkable house.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Pre-IWTB  
> A/N: Written for the XFFicchallenges anonymous challenge.  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Christmas Eve in their house is just as unremarkable as the house itself: nothing like Scully ever expected, but something that feels like a solid foundation. They find a tree in the woods and chop it down together - she doesn’t really trust Mulder with an ax. She doesn’t want to buy decorations she’ll have to leave behind, so they string garlands of cranberries and popcorn to hang around the tree. She doesn’t have any problem buying lights, somehow, so their tree is all glow and old-timey charm. Mulder makes a star out of wire and tinfoil and somehow it’s perfect, in some strange slightly hollow way. She supposed she should have expected nothing else.

She didn’t imagine this Christmas, when she was a child, kneeling beside her parents’ tree. She hoped by now to have her own set of ornaments: partly culled from her mother’s collection, including the kindergarten efforts of the Scully children, partly built by the tastes of her family, partly crafted in loving amateurishness by her own children. She didn’t imagine sitting by the fire with Mulder, the only illumination from the flames and their tree, a trail of paper towels covering the sticky spots on the rug where the tree dripped its sap.

Outside it’s snowing, but it won’t be a white Christmas. It’s not even flurries - it’s the snow equivalent of nasty, sloppy drizzle. She can hear it rattle against the windows. If they were going to stay, she’d put in storm windows. So far, she’s settled for heavy curtains. She can’t count on staying. They’ve been safe so far, but years of paranoia are in her bones now. She’s not attached to anything in this house except Mulder. If they had to leave, she’d let the fire escape the grate and take the rug, the tree, the couch, all of it. 

“This is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever celebrated,” Mulder murmurs into her hair. 

She chuckles. "Better than that Christmas we went ghost hunting?“

"I admit I don’t have many points of comparison,” he says. 

There aren’t many presents under the tree, but that isn’t what Christmas has ever been about to her. 

If she closes her eyes, she can see Emily, smiling in an oversized sweatshirt and Christmas leggings. She can see William, hair askew and eyes bright. It would be a much different house with her children in it. It would be a much different tree. There would be gifts heaped under the lowest branches of the tree. There would be cookies cooling on the counter, iced by inexpert hands. She would be in the kitchen, watching Mulder chop onions, prepping for tomorrow’s feast. She would let the kids slice the celery and tear bread into cubes for stuffing. She would make all her mother’s old recipes, and toast her father’s memory with a splash of whiskey. 

Instead, they’ll order Chinese from the one restaurant in town. They’ll have to reheat it by the time they get home. They’ll probably watch _Plan 9 From Outer Space_ , but they might watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ if they catch it on television. She refuses to watch the movie with the sexy lamp again. Mulder might make latkes for breakfast: she bought potatoes and onions, hoping to wake up to the sizzle of potatoes in hot oil. He claims it’s the only thing he remembers from his childhood holidays. She doesn’t push him.

Scully pulls Mulder’s arm tighter around herself and tugs the blanket more evenly over their laps. The cold seeps into the house, despite the heavy curtains and the towels she’s rolled up to block the spaces under the doors. If they were staying, she’d have insulation blown into the spaces between the walls and under the eaves. She can imagine Mulder excited by that, by the idea of hidden secrets in the spaces between the studs. She can’t believe there would be anything there, but they’ve found skeletons in closets before. She prefers not to find them in her own house, no matter how temporary a shelter it might be.

“I know it isn’t the life you wanted, Scully,” he says.

“Mmm,” she says in mild dissent. "Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted.“

"You’ve never not known what you wanted,” he says fondly.

“Mulder, that isn’t even close to true,” she tells him.

He nuzzles closer. "If this isn’t a world away from the life you expected, then what were you staring at, a million miles away?“

"Our children,” she says. 

“Christmas past,” he says. "Christmas future.“

She rubs a hand over her stinging eyes. Her fingers are cold. She tucks them under her leg under the blankets. "I know you believe we’ll find him one day, Mulder, but all I have is Christmas present.”

“But every Christmas present is every Christmas, Scully,” he says. "Every memory, every possibility, all wrapped up in shiny paper, tucked under a tree that’s every tree. The shape of it changes, but the space it fills is the same. Same food every year. Same ornaments on the tree. Same tree, if you get a fake one. Same ugly sweater from Grandma. Mine was always too short in the sleeves. Different holiday, same idea. Every holiday is bittersweet. We remember every hurt the year brought us, and every hope we have while we’re together.“

"We bring light to the darkness,” she murmurs. 

“For a little while,” he says. "It gets us through to the thaw.“

She sighs, leaning against him. "You bring light to my darkness, Mulder. It doesn’t change how much I want it to be Christmas future now.”

His arm tightens around her again. "Me too, Scully.“

They sit and watch the fire burn itself low. Outside the snow spits. Somewhere, their son is probably being tucked into bed, visions of sugarplums dancing in his head, or maybe he’s lighting a menorah, or maybe he’s not celebrating at all. One day, she believes, they’ll make their own holiday traditions. This Christmas, all she has is the same thing she has every Christmas Eve: hope, faith, and the strength of her traditions. Mulder kisses the top of her head and she leans into his side. Christmas Eve will turn into Christmas Day. This Christmas will turn into next Christmas. They’ll be here in this house or somewhere else. Some Christmas it will be perfect. But this Christmas is enough.


End file.
